"So there we were in the attic, filled to the rafters with many painted Keith Moon portraits, hundreds of ornate silver absinthe spoons, hundreds more pairs of my barely or never worn designer shoes (sshhhh! private use of attic storage is against club regulations!) and my old letters."
Shhh... it's a scintillating secret society as dazzling as Wit of the Staircase's imagination.
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